


Sleeping Honor

by Findswoman



Series: The Lasan Series [1]
Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Lasan, Lasat, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Rituals, Romance, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-03-30 21:12:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13960119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findswoman/pseuds/Findswoman
Summary: A young Zeb Orrelios (age 19), recovering in the infirmary of the Lasan High Honor Guard base after injuries sustained in rescuing his younger brother, Shai, receives a visitor. This story is a postscript to chapter 3 of Raissa Baiard's The Beginning of Honor and references its events. The character of Garashai (Shai) Orrelios is borrowed from her with gratitude.





	Sleeping Honor

Storms’ End had been yesterday—as had the storm.  
  
That storm had been bigger than any that had occurred during the Dust Season proper. It had blown up suddenly in the middle of the day, just as the Storms’ End fair was in full swing on the Royal Lasat Parade Grounds. Fairgoers had scattered in desperation, young kits shrieking at the top of their lungs as they clung to their parents. Booths and tents had been flung apart by the heavy winds. Any wares that vendors had not had time to stuff back into their crates or boxes lay scoured and shredded on the ground. Broken glass and crockery were strewn everywhere. Grimy dust covered everything.  
  
Through this landscape of chaos and gloom walked the young initiate shaman, wrapped in her scarlet cloak with her satchel over her shoulder. A slight breeze ruffled her long purple-black hair as she stepped carefully over shards, debris, and spillage. The grit chafed the pads of her toes, but she kept walking. As she walked, her thoughts went back to the day before.  
  
Two of the other initiates, Rishla and Yhazi, had prevailed upon her to come out with them to the Warrior, the mighty stone spire overlooking Lira Zel, in order to watch the young males make their yearly climb. (“Oh, Shulma, you _have_ to come!” they said. “All the young men will be climbing!” they said. “I bet _that cadet_ will be climbing,” they said.) She remembered how her friends had clapped and cheered and hooted for each of the climbers, and how flighty, flirty Yhazi had swaggered off with that lieutenant who had made it almost to the top. But Shulma had had eyes for only one of the young men there: _that cadet,_ the handsome, muscular first-year with the swirling dark-purple arm-stripes. She recalled how he had smiled at her from afar—how the sun had glinted off those leaf-green eyes, those razor-sparkling teeth—and how her heart had skipped a beat.  
  
She recalled his climb—how he had climbed so high—and then, all in that single dreadful moment, how horror had palled his face, how he had lost his grip, scrabbled desperately at the rock, fallen to the ground, and hurried off back to town! It was as though he had forgotten someone or something. She had gazed after him until Rishla prodded her to pay attention, as some other cadet with a huge, bushy beard was starting his climb. But by then her heart was no longer in it, for _he_ was no longer in it.  
  
Later, when the storm siren sounded and they were all hustling back toward town, she had seen him running back toward the Warrior, directly into the building winds, shouting something about his younger brother who was lost out there on the trail. She had signed the Triangle and whispered a prayer to the Ashla for his and his brother’s safe return. They had all taken shelter in the Honor Guard base and stayed there for what must have been hours, huddled together, waiting, hoping, until a speeder pulled up at the gate—  
  
—and _he_ had jumped out, caked with stormgrit, limbs abraded and bleeding, his injured little brother curled up in his arms. He had run with the wounded kit into the infirmary himself, declining the stretcher offered by the medics. Ah, that image of true courage and honor!  
  
That was the last she had seen of him that day. She had made up her mind that she would visit him and his brother in the infirmary the next day at her earliest convenience. And that was precisely what she was doing now.  
  
At the far end of the parade grounds Shulma shook the grit from her feet and descended the broad stone steps leading to the lower part of the canyon, which was dominated by the massive complex of the Honor Guard base. To refresh her memory she consulted the directory map that stood beside the guard station: the infirmary was on the far west side. The security drone in the guard station signed her in, performed a quick security scan, and searched her bag. As soon as it declared her all clear, she made as quickly as she could for the infirmary.  
  
She was greeted at the front desk by a uniformed female secretary a few years older than she. “Good day, ma’am. May I help you?”  
  
“Yes, please. I—I am here to—to visit someone.”  
  
“Right.” The secretary gestured to a datapad lying on one corner of the desk. “Please sign in here with your name, the time, and the room number.”  
  
“I’m sorry, I don’t know the room number.”  
  
“I’ll look it up. Patient’s name, last name first?”  
  
“Orrelios, Garazeb.” The shaman shuffled her feet nervously; it always made her heart flutter a little to say that name out loud. _Not that there had been many opportunities yet..._  
  
The secretary, who had scarcely begun typing on her computer terminal, suddenly looked up, narrowing her eyes quizzically at the pretty, long-haired, _female_ visitor before her. “You’re not a family member, are you?”  
  
“No, just... a friend.”  
  
“Mmm.” The shadow of a smirk flitted over the secretary’s face as she began typing again.  
  
“A-and of course as a shaman of the Academy I—I am willing to offer him any spiritual assistance that he may desire—”  
  
“Yes, I’m sure you are.” The secretary hit one final, decisive key on her terminal. “He’s in 206.”  
  
“Thank you.” She signed in quickly on the datapad, avoiding the secretary’s gaze.  
  
“The stairwell is down this hallway to your right. Go upstairs, turn left, and 206 will be at the end of the hall.”  
  
“Thank you,” Shulma said again. Without looking back, she made for the stairs.  
  
Room 206 was a double room. Its two cubicles were separated by a partition, with a curtain covering the opening between them. The cubicle closer to the door was occupied by a young male of about fourteen dust seasons, still young enough to have a full head of dark purple hair, who lay asleep with one leg elevated in a thick cast. This was certainly the younger brother who had been lost and rescued. Shulma took a piece of chalk from her satchel and marked a few mystical glyphs on the floor surrounding the bed, all the while chanting prayers of healing under her breath. Then she pushed aside the curtain and entered the next cubicle.  
  
There he was! She tiptoed over to look more closely. He too lay in tranquil sleep, motionless except for the gentle rise and fall of his chest. They had cleaned him of the dust and grit, but there were bacta strips all along his arms, partly obscuring the handsome pattern of his stripes. A blanket covered him from his chest through his lower legs; the strong, prehensile feet that had grappled so deftly with the Warrior and run so swiftly along the trail were now wrapped in bacta dressings up to the ankles. And his face—  
  
_That face!_ Shulma sank with a sigh into a chair beside the bed, her eyes fixed on the vision before her—on the rippling sideburns the color of the night sky, on the swirling deep purple stripes that edged the forehead and cheeks, on the chiseled, deep-set features that were now steeped in slumber. A large bacta pad stretched from his temple down to his cheek, another crossed part of his forehead, and the corner of a third poked out from one of his ears. This indeed was the face of courage, of bravery, of _honor_ —and oh, how it deserved that sweet rest after such a trial!  
  
Shulma sat there gazing for several more moments, her face warming and her heart surging. The wisp of a thought crossed her mind: what if she tried to—? No, a kiss would be too much for now. A touch? His cheek, his beard, the edge of his ear? Tempting, certainly, but possibly also a bit much. But his hand lay across his chest...  
  
She reached over and drew two fingertips across the dark purple stripe that crossed his knuckles. That strong hand that had snatched a child from danger! So solid, and yet so soft...  
  
“Mmmmrrfff? Wha...?”  
  
He snorted and shifted heavily. At once Shulma pulled her hand away, dropped to the floor, and began chalking healing glyphs around the bed. If he really was waking up—and the continued sounds of shifting hinted that he was—this was at least a way she could buy herself time until her blushes went down. When she returned to the chair, he was sitting up in bed, fully awake, glancing all around with wide green eyes—which nearly jumped out of their sockets when they fell on the young shaman sitting beside him.  
  
“SHULMA! Karabast! I... um... er....”  
  
“Hi, Zeb.” She waved timidly. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Oh, er... um... well, all right... had worse, had better...” Again he shifted and glanced around. “What... er... are you doing here?”  
  
“I just... thought I’d come visit you. And Shai too, of course.”  
  
“Right! Of course! I mean... hi.”  
  
“Hi,” she said again, the glint of a smile illuminating her face.  
  
Both were silent for a moment. Zeb’s face fell as he looked down at his bandaged limbs. “Aw, karabast... I... I’m sorry... I look terrible...”  
  
“It’s all right,” she consoled him. “You’ve been through a lot.” _You only ran out into the middle of the biggest dust storm of all this past year to find your little brother and bring him to safety,_ she wanted to add.  
  
“Suppose so. Still...”  
  
“Not everyone would have been able to do what you did.” _You are a true Honor Guard and warrior of Lasan._  
  
Zeb lay back, clenching his fists. “Too much I didn’t do. Shouldn’t have left Shai behind in the first place. If I’d stayed at the fair and watched him like I was supposed to, none of this would’ve happened and my kid brother wouldn’t have a broken ankle and I wouldn’t be such a miserable scraped-up mess.”  
  
“Zeb. Don’t blame yourself.” Shulma resisted the urge to reach over and gently unclench those strong hands, to lay them back across that broad chest. “The main thing is that you made things right again. You went out there yourself and rescued him from the storm.” _You will be your brother’s hero forever. As you are mine._  
  
“Aw, you have no idea... he was so mad at me when I found him... almost wouldn’t let me take him...”  
  
“I don’t see how he could possibly still be angry with you now.”  
  
“I deserve it,” Zeb growled, pounding a bandaged fist on the bed. “I deserve for him to hate me. I left him. I failed him. And to think it’s all because I wanted to—” He broke off.  
  
“Wanted to what?”  
  
“Well...” Zeb heaved another sigh. “When the others were tryin’ to get me to go out to climb the Warrior, I... I only went because...”  
  
“Because what?”  
  
“Because I kinda thought _you_ might be out there, watching.”  
  
Shulma’s eyes widened. “Zeb... may I tell you something?”  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“Well... the only reason I went out there in the first place was... because I thought _you_ might be climbing. I didn’t care about any of the others.” _For you are a bristlecone among the shrubs of the timberline._ “Though Ashla knows Rishla and Yhazi tried their best to get me to.” She laughed slightly, remembering her friends’ enthusiastic coaxing and their raucous cries of encouragement to the climbers. “You really did quite well, you know.”  
  
“Aw, yeah, I did _quite well,_ all right... until I slid down the rock, scraped up my arms and legs, fell on my behind, and—WHAT WAS THAT?!”  
  
Zeb sprang back to a sitting position as the half-snort, half-snicker of unsuccessfully stifled youthful laughter filtered in from the adjoining cubicle. “Karabast,” he muttered. “Blasted kit’s awake, isn’t he?”  
  
Shulma gestured to the curtain. “I can... close this, if you would like.”  
  
“Yeah, go ahead.”  
  
She rose and did so, though despite her best efforts the curtain did not fully cover the opening between the cubicles. Indeed, Shai piped up with “I can still see you, Zebby.”  
  
“That’s great, kid,” muttered his older brother, shifting uncomfortably as he lay back down.  
  
Shulma returned to her chair and made to pick up her satchel. “Perhaps I should go.”  
  
“No no no! Wait!” Zeb’s hand shot out and grasped her arm, coaxing her back down. “There’s something I… um… wanna ask you.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Well, yesterday... I’d been thinkin’ that if everything went well I would take you back to the fair and buy you a mug of cider... or some pastries... or something... and I just wondered...”  
  
“Wondered what?”  
  
“If... if I could still do that. I mean, there’s no more fair, of course. But I thought it would still be nice to—I mean, y’know, once I’m all better—”  
  
“Yes, certainly!” _I will go anywhere with you, beloved warrior! Well, within the bounds of reason and propriety. But cider and pastries? Of course._  
  
“They said maybe two more days, one more if I’m—” The youthful laughter cut in again. “SHUT UP, SHAI! I KNOW THAT’S YOU!”  
  
“I’m sorry, Zebby!” came the giggling voice from the next cubicle. “I can’t help it! Just listen to you!”  
  
“Blasted fool kit,” grumbled Zeb, ignoring the additional giggle he received in response and turning away in embarrassment from Shulma. Even so, she noticed the dark flush that now filled his face, almost obscuring the tapered stripes that adorned it at the edges—and she felt heat and color rising in her own face too.  
  
“I really had better go now,” she said, getting up again.  
  
“NO! Please, no!” Again he put out a hand to stay her. “I mean—before you do, just one more thing, I promise—”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Could you, um—maybe give me—a blessing? Or a prayer? Or—something? Since you’re—a shaman of the Academy and all that?”  
  
“Yes, of course.” She thought for a moment about what would be appropriate. “Perhaps a few verses from the Consecration of the Valorous Wounded from the Wartime Rite?” _I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more._  
  
“Yeah, sure!... I mean, whatever you want.”  
  
Shulma took the chalk from her satchel once again and made one more mark, this time on the wall above the head of Zeb’s bed: a large glyph resembling three highly stylized crossed bo-rifles, one in rifle mode, one in staff mode, and one in the mode of the ancients. She glanced down at him as she drew; the glowing smile he wore as he relaxed back onto his pillow was not lost on her. She traced the Triangle on her breast, placed her hands on Zeb’s forehead, and began her incantation in soft, plaintive tones:  
  
_Ashla, sovereign brightness_  
_of the highest reaches:_  
 _o’er thy wounded Garazeb—_  
  
“Hey! Stay still!” she chuckled, steadying him. He had jumped at the sound of his name.  
  
“Sorry, sorry... just wasn’t expecting—”  
  
“If you prefer I can use the generic group form, ‘O’er thy wounded warriors’—”  
  
“No, no, no... it’s all right... go on...”  
  
“Well, I have to start over now.” She winked at him, then began again:  
  
_Ashla, sovereign brightness_  
_of the highest reaches:_  
 _o’er thy wounded Garazeb_  
 _spread thy veil of healing._  
  
Shulma paused and glanced down. Zeb’s eyes were closed; again he wore the tranquil face of sleep. Even Shai’s laughter was now silent.  
  
_From his marks of valor_  
 _cleanse the blood of struggle;_  
 _fill his limbs with vigor;_  
 _crown his might with rest._  
  
_To thee I commend him,_  
 _Ashla, light of warriors;_  
 _may his honor waken_  
 _to fight with strength renewed._  
  
Her last notes trailed off into silence. Looking down, she saw Zeb’s eyes flicker open and gaze up at her in half awe, half stupor. She bent closer, letting her hair ever so lightly graze his cheek.  
  
As they looked at each other for the next few quiet moments, she realized she was close enough to catch his scent. Beneath the sickly tang of the bacta and soap lurked something heady and woodsy, something of the ancient bristlecone forests...  
  
Just then the silence was rent by a youthful shout from next door: “Kiss her, Zebby! Kiss her!”  
  
Zeb’s dazed look morphed into a scowl, then brightened suddenly into a grin. “Suppose I shouldn’t disappoint the kit a second time.”  
  
“You certainly shouldn’t.” _I am yours, beloved warrior of Lasan!_  
  
Slowly, tentatively, he put up a hand to draw her close. She leaned down into his embrace, inhaling his scent; the pinelike musk had now fully triumphed over the tawdry, tangy bacta. Her hair cascaded over his face, caressing the midnight fringe of his beard. Closer, closer...  
  
And when their lips touched, the electric sweetness that shot through Shulma was like the most vivid of her visions, the most ecstatic of her trances. _Oh, that your kiss were one of my rituals…!_  
  
It was only after she had sunk back into the chair that she realized how fast her heart was beating. Zeb seemed similarly spent; his eyes were closed again. After taking a deep breath, Shulma collected her satchel and rose to go, then traced the Triangle once more on Zeb’s shoulder. His eyes opened and he took her hand in his.  
  
“So... um… Shulma…”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Day after tomorrow… about this time... cider? Whaddaya say?”  
  
“I say yes.” _What else could I possibly say?_  
  
“Or maybe even tomorrow if I’m better...”  
  
“I’m sure you’ll let me know.” She smiled and placed her other hand on his, again drawing her fingers over the purple knuckle-stripe. “Now rest well, Zeb. The Ashla will watch over you.”  
  
“You too, Shulma... and... thanks.”  
  
“Always.”  
  
He shifted and nestled back into bed. After one final, wistful glance, Shulma exited the cubicle. She could hear Shai’s laughter again as she crossed to his side of the room. The younger male’s grin shifted to a look of concern as she approached, but his face softened again as she smiled at him and placed a small kiss on his tousled head.  
  
“Hey, Zebby, she kissed me too!” she heard Shai exclaim as she left the room—and she beamed inwardly as her ears caught Zeb’s smugly chuckled reply: “Not like she kissed _me,_ kid.”  
  
Then, with brightness in her heart and a spring in her step, Shulma left the infirmary and went out into the clear Lasan sun.  
  
* * *  
  
The next day, in that same clear Lasan sun, Shulma stood outside the security post of the Honor Guard base, waiting. She spun around and smiled as Zeb came up beside her—now fully recovered, crisp and spruce in his uniform vest and armor, and smiling a smile that drowned out the sun.  
  
Then they walked off together toward town. ¶

**Author's Note:**

> Storms’ End and its associated celebrations are the creations of Raissa Baiard and are elaborated in her _The Beginning of Honor_ (see link in summary above). All the events about which Shulma reminisces take place in that story.
> 
> Shulma’s chalked glyphs are drawn (!) from the chalked markings made by Chava on the floor of the Ghost in the _Rebels_ episode “Legends of the Lasat,” as part of the Lira San ritual. I see such markings as being a fairly standard feature of Lasat shamanism and part of almost all of its rituals, with shamans like Shulma and Chava keeping some of that chalk with them at all times.
> 
> “some other cadet with a huge, bushy beard”: One of Raissa’s supporting OCs, Velibor, a fellow cadet of Zeb’s who convinces him to climb the Warrior in The Beginning of Honor.
> 
> Shulma’s friends Rishla and Yhazi are my OCs. Raissa’s story mentioned the lieutenant who had climbed higher than anyone else and who had three girls trailing him back to town; that one of them was Yhazi was my own extrapolation, made with her permission, of course. :p
> 
> “the mode of the ancients”: A reference to the unusual bo-rifle configuration used by Zeb in “Legends of the Lasat” as part of the Lira San ritual (“as the ancients used it”).
> 
> The Consecration of the Valorous Wounded and the Wartime Rite are fanon; the proper name and pronouns in the prayer can of course be altered as needed.
> 
> Zeb’s scent: Much is made in _Rebels_ of how bad he smells, at least to Ezra. But might not a member of his own species might think differently—especially one who is in love with him? ;)


End file.
